Page 65 of A Theory of Dreaming
Preston ignored the implication—which felt almost like an accusation—that this washisdream. He could not fight that now. It was plain for them both to see. “How else should I have imagined him?”
“Perhaps less like the Old King of Llyr and more like the true figure he was.” Gosse stepped closer, until he was close enough totouch the king’s silver hand. “Even in your own mind, he maintains the prejudicial nationalism that is imposed on him.”
“I don’t understand,” Preston said, beginning to feel slick and nauseous, as if with a fever. Gosse was ruining all that he had built here, all that he had imagined.
“You will,” Master Gosse said. “I don’t doubt that, Héloury. You’ve always been too clever.”
Not clever enough, Preston thought. Not clever enough to change his fate in the real world. He’d had to retreat into the safety of his dream.
“The hand is silver,” Gosse went on, in that same infuriatingly casual tone. “Haven’t you ever wondered why? It could have been iron, to represent strength, or gold, to represent luxury, but as Aneurin tells the tale, it’s silver. Come now. Think.”
“Silver for Argant,” Preston said. That much was obvious. “His enemies are ‘silver-clad,’ an obvious epithet for Argantians. And they speak ‘the demon Ankou’s tongue.’” He frowned. “And his daughter betrays him when she falls in love with an enemy prince, an Argantian, so perhaps the hand is silver as a reminder of the evils of Argant...”
A look of pleasure and pride touched Gosse’s eyes. “Just so, Héloury. Just so. It’s almost as though Aneurin crafted his story for the precise purpose of demonizing the enemy.”
“But...” Preston glanced over the statue of the king, his fearful gaze and defensive pose. “It’s the truth. The kingdoms have been at war for centuries.”
And yet—how had the story, so similar in its contours, foundits way into a book of Argantian fairy tales? Frustration began to simmer within him. He wished Gosse would just speak plainly.
But he would not get the truth from his adviser so easily. And their time was running out. As Preston’s anger grew and reached its pitch, he could no longer support the architecture of his dream. This was meant to be a world without such confounding emotions, such displeasing sentiments. The walls were not built to withstand such rage.
When Preston opened his eyes, he saw the gloaming darkness of Master Gosse’s office, the burnished wood and brown leather, the leather-bound books lining the walls. But when he blinked, the image of Effy’s statue flashed through his mind—its corroded marble, its shuttered face. Preston swallowed hard. He had been cast out before he could ask the most important question of all.
How can I save her?
Master Gosse was still slumped over, eyes shut and taking labored, inconstant breaths. He had kept him there—or at least, his subconscious mind had kept him there, in the dream world, while Preston did what needed to be done.
Preston rose and, with his heart pounding in his ears, began to rifle through the papers on Gosse’s desk. When he could not find what he was looking for there, he opened each drawer, checking them thoroughly. At last, in the very bottom drawer, he found what he was seeking. It glinted at him through the dark. Before Master Gosse could wake, he grasped it and shoved it into his pocket.
Preston bid Master Gosse a hasty farewell, promising vaguely to return when he was needed again, and then rushed through thecold to Effy’s dorm. His boots slid on the ice-slicked pavement, but he arrived fully intact, if short of breath. He rapped loudly on the door, and to his dismay, it was Rhia who opened it.
“Oh,” she said, upon seeing his face. “It’s you.”
“Where’s Effy?” Preston asked.
“She’s in her bedroom,” Rhia said. But she didn’t move from the threshold. “She’s been there for weeks. I don’t think she’s been going to class. She’s barely even been speaking to me. Why haven’t you done anything about it? She’s not well. Can’t you help her?”
Preston felt his chest collapsing in on itself. Something vital inside him, crumbling. He had known it—at least in some manner—for a long time. That Effy wasn’t well. But he hadn’t wanted to believe it. All his life he had believed himself loyal to the truth. Yet now here he was, rejecting what he could not bear, armoring himself in imagination and lies.
And Effy was the one to suffer for it.
“Let me in,” Preston said. “I’m going to help her, Rhia. I promise.”
Rhia let out a long, low breath, her tiny frame still blocking the door. “I don’t know what she needs. But you can’t leave her alone.”
“I would never do that.”
Finally, and with another sigh, Rhia shifted to let him through. She stood there in the corridor, her stare lingering on him as Preston strode quickly to Effy’s bedroom. Not bothering to knock, he pushed open the door.
Effy was lying curled on her side in bed. Her hair, long and matted once more, streamed out across the pillows. The coverswere drawn up to her chin. The only light in the room was the lamp on her bedside table, and it flickered weakly, the bulb nearly dead.
Panic tightened Preston’s throat. But when he approached her, he realized she was not sleeping. Her eyes were open, though she stared straight ahead, gaze unfixed.
“Effy,” he said—soft, strangled. “I’m here now.”
There was no response at all, not even a shift in her muddled gaze.
Preston hesitantly lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. “Can you sit up?”
